


On His Good Side

by PenguinofProse



Series: S4 Time Jump AUs [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU time jump, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, radio calls but different
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: AU of the time jump. What if Bellamy never got the door of the bunker open? Would he ever be able to forgive Clarke?
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: S4 Time Jump AUs [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764070
Comments: 41
Kudos: 175





	On His Good Side

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Stormkpr for betaing!
> 
> CN: Some mention of suicidal thoughts, typical of what we see in canon.

Clarke knows that Bellamy will never forgive her for this, and that's saying something. Forgiveness has always been what they do best. But there is no way on this Earth that he is going to forgive her for locking him up and locking his little sister out of this bunker.

She takes a deep breath, fights down tears. It doesn't matter if he never forgives her. At least he will _live_. And not just him, but the human race, and every Arkadian except Octavia and Kane. This is, she knows, the best choice they could have made, given the circumstances. And it is, without doubt, the only choice _she_ could have made.

She could never make a choice that risked his life. As long as he is on this side of that door, it is staying firmly shut.

She knows that shouldn't be her priority, of course, and knows that her focus ought to be on that point about the _entire_ _human race_. As long as they keep that door closed, with the engineers and doctors safe and sound inside, there will be people to survive and repopulate the Earth when this nightmare is over. In the meantime, though, the nightmare only stretches on. Murphy calls on the radio, yet again, telling her about Bellamy's bloodied wrists, yet again. It is the third such message inside of an hour, and with each one she has felt her resolve crumbling further.

"Clarke, I think he needs a doctor. I'm no expert, but there's a lot of blood. And he's going crazy in there. Can't you – can't you sedate him or something?"

She can't sedate him, of course. They do not have the medical supplies to spare for that. But she can certainly source enough antiseptic and bandages to take care of his wrists. She supposes that she really ought to ask her mum or Jackson, someone who is actually qualified as a real doctor. But she's treated worse wounds than this, before now. And if she's being honest, she wants the excuse to go see him, and find out how he's getting on, and show him that she still cares.

With that resolved, she locates the medical supplies she is looking for. She sneaks a shock baton from under Jaha's desk, as well, just in case Bellamy struggles and won't let her treat him. She'll knock him out if she has to, will do whatever it takes to take care of him.

Murphy sighs in relief when he sees her rounding the corner. "Thank God, Clarke. He screamed for a couple of minutes solid just now."

She frowns. Murphy is not supposed to be moved by screaming. "And then he stopped?"

"Yeah. He's still alive. I checked."

That, if nothing else, should give her a clue as to quite how bad things are. She is not easily daunted, though, so she presses on, approaching the door, turning the handle. She hears the clatter of chains, and as she enters the room she sees that Bellamy has scrambled to his feet.

Then he takes in the sight of her, and she sees the fight go out of him. He collapses to the floor, a broken heap, and starts to sob. The sight of his shoulders shaking with sorrow is somehow even more frightening than all of those horror stories over the radio from Murphy. Bellamy Blake does not break down and weep, in her experience. When he is upset, he puts all of his emotion into fighting back.

It takes her a moment to put together the pieces, but once she has managed it, she is ashamed of her own slowness.

"You were hoping for my mum." She murmurs, and he keeps weeping, either not hearing her or choosing to ignore her. She tries again, somewhat louder. "You were hoping that the doctor you'd get would be the only other person in this bunker who loves someone the other side of that door anywhere near as much as you do. And then you were going to make some plan with her to open it and let them in."

He's still trembling, and groaning like a wounded animal to boot. She knew it would be bad, but she hadn't expected it to be _this_ bad. This is, she supposes, the moment when he realises that he will not be able to save his sister. Her mum is not here, and so this is the death of his last desperate plan, and with it the fast-approaching death of the girl who has been his world for so long.

"You must have known it would be me who'd come. You must have known I wouldn't be able to stay away when I heard you were hurt."

He's definitely never going to forgive her for this. If there were any chance at all of absolution, he'd at least have shouted at her for saying that. Something biting about how his wrists are nothing compared with knowing his sister is about to die. As it is, he keeps groaning, and sobbing, and shivering, and she finds that her eyes are damp as well.

"At least you got to say goodbye." She regrets the words the moment they are out of their mouth, recognises that she is only rubbing salt into the wound. She wants to try again, to say something consoling about this most final of endings, but she's not sure where to start. She cannot even say it will be _quick_ , because she rather suspects a slow and painful death is waiting on the ground for the two remaining members of Skaikru. She suspects that the other clans will want vengeance for this betrayal.

She watches him weep for a minute or two more, as each second that ticks by feels longer than the last. Feels longer, even, than the precious few months she has known this remarkable man. She tangles a length of bandage around her fingers for something to do and pretends that she is not crying, too.

At length, she decides that she had better get on with her appointed task, at least. He will be cared for, whether he likes it or not. She thinks that his sobs are slowing and decides that this is as good a moment as any to give it a try.

"At least let me bandage your wrists." She finds that her voice grows gentle, even of its own accord, her affection for him spilling over through the tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please, Bellamy. Please let me take care of you."

He snorts, once, wiping his face on his sleeve and making no move at all to allow her access to his wrists.

"Bellamy, _please_. I know you're furious with me. I'd – I'd feel the same way. But you have to know I didn't want to hurt you. I – I care about you too much to have done this to hurt you. It just – I couldn't -"

"If you cared about me at all, I'd be on the other side of that door."

She doesn't know it, yet, but they will be the last words he says to her for several long years.

Oblivious to this fact as she is, she simply shakes her head, scattering tears onto the bandages she holds. "I'm sorry, OK? I'm sorry. But it was the only choice. Now let me take care of those wrists."

Again, he doesn't speak. He doesn't move. He doesn't even _look_ at her.

"I get that you don't want to talk to me. I get that you don't want to see me. But I am taking care of you if it's the last thing I do. I – I have a shock baton, Bellamy, and I will knock you out if that is what it takes to get to your wrists." She hates herself for the threat, and he hates her for it, too. She can see it in the way he starts sobbing again.

She can see it in the way he stretches out his hands, at last, quivering with the combined weight of chains and sorrow.

Never in all her life has she bandaged a pair of chafed wrists with such painstaking tender care.

…...

"I think he's a danger to himself." She informs her mother, who is not listening. She is sorting syringes by size for no apparent reason whilst trying not to cry. "He – he hurt himself pretty badly, and he said something about wanting to be on the other side of the door."

"He just meant he wanted to see his sister. And I think that's understandable, given the situation." Her voice is sharp, and Clarke doesn't like it.

"Mum, if this is about Kane -"

"This is _not_ about Marcus. This is about Bellamy. And he's just going to have to deal with it. We've all got reasons to be upset, Clarke, we haven't got the resources to give any special care to him just because he's upset about his sister."

"It's more than that, Mum. He's gone wild. If we could just sedate him -"

"We can't. We haven't got enough sedatives to go around sedating everyone who's mourning. We've all lost someone, Clarke, and your temperamental boyfriend will just have to put up with it." She throws a syringe they cannot afford to waste at the wall, and then stalks out of the room.

She's lying, Clarke is certain of it. That conversation was _definitely_ about Kane. It looks like there is another person in this bunker who will never forgive her.

…...

Clarke watches the clock in the coming hours more closely than she has ever done in her life before. She's hoping that the situation will calm down a little when the death wave arrives. After that point, there will be no going back, and there will therefore be no danger of Bellamy or her mother conspiring to unlock that damn door.

Time crawls slowly, even while she finds her heartbeat rather more panicky and erratic than usual. She has arranged for Emori to take some shifts at Bellamy's door, too, because she cannot for the life of her think of anyone else who wants to be inside this bunker desperately enough to put up with listening to a well-respected former leader lose his mind. That's not why Clarke is willing to take a turn at that most dispiriting of posts, of course. She's not there because she wants to survive. She's there because she needs _him_ to survive, and needs their people to survive, too. And as long as he's there, chained to the floor, wrists ripped raw, he is not letting anarchy into their haven alongside his sister.

She checks his wounds when it is next her turn to watch his door. She brings him a book, too, even though she knows it is beyond pointless. She hopes it might at least serve as a peace gesture, and she doesn't think anyone has ever managed to use a copy of the _Odyssey_ to break out of prison before now.

She walks into the dismal cell and is struck by the claustrophobic darkness and the stench of the bucket that currently serves as Bellamy's bathroom facilities. She hates herself for this, almost more than for locking his sister out, for the fact that she has been complicit in reducing her closest friend to being treated little better than an animal.

"Hey." She greets him, not expecting a reply. She breathes a sigh of relief that he is at least not sobbing, this time. "I'm just here to check on your injuries. And I brought you something." She holds the book out. He does not take it. "I'll just leave it here, then. Can I see those wrists?" No response. "Bellamy, _please_. I don't want to shock lash you. It was – it was horrific watching them do that earlier."

With that, he sighs, and holds his hands out for her inspection. He doesn't seem to have made the injuries any worse since she last checked on him, and that is almost what scares her the most.

It means he's given up. Brave, determined, _irrepressible_ Bellamy Blake has given up.

She files that thought away for later, focuses on her task. And before long his dressings are changed and she is walking to the door, ready to spend the next six hours sitting in the corridor and wondering what's going on in here.

She can't face it. She simply cannot face it.

She sits in a heap just inside the threshold, instead.

…...

That is how it works, for her next couple of shifts. She sits on the far side of his cell, and for six hours at a time she does nothing but watch him. And for six hours at a time, he does nothing but stare at the floor. OK, that's not strictly true. One time she tries to speak to him, and he starts crying.

But then, one shift, just as the death wave is burning above them, she arrives to a shocking development. The book has moved. At some point, since she first left it on the floor at his side, he must have picked it up and actually read it.

She refreshes his bandages with even more tenderness, on that occasion. And while she does so, she has another go at talking. She knows it's a lost cause, but she cannot quite deal with a world in which she cannot speak to this man.

"I guess you read it. That's good. And Murphy tells me you actually ate the lunch I sent down for you today. That's – that's really good, Bellamy." She pauses, and wonders whether her next words are wise. "The radiation has hit, now. So – so it will all be over up there, soon, and then we're going to have a go at letting you go free. Probably with a lot of supervision at first – I'm sorry about that, but we need to keep you safe and I'm a bit worried about you. Miller will room with you, and you'll be spending your days together on the guard as well. And then I'll be changing your bandages for the first few days. And Murphy will check in on you, he's got pretty attached since he's spent so much time sitting outside."

She runs out of steam, then. It's eerie, talking to this silent stranger who used to be her closest friend. And the worst thing is, she knows she has only herself to blame.

But he's still breathing. That's what matters.

…...

Her mother at least replies when she speaks to her. That's something, she supposes. But she doesn't tend to reply in a very useful way, tends to be bitter and disjointed, never seems to be concentrating on what Clarke is actually saying.

They don't room together. Clarke rooms alone. Six bunks, and hers is the only one slept in. The others are occupied by the ghosts of those she condemned to burn in Praimfaiya, she likes to think. They keep her company, remind her that making impossible decisions is her calling in life. They phrase it a bit differently, though. They whisper that it's the only thing she's any good at.

It's a good thing that she is good at it, though. Without Kane, and with Bellamy out of action, she finds herself increasingly concerned with running the bunker. Jaha likes to talk, sure, but he has no great mind for strategy and is out-of-touch with his people's priorities, these days.

So that's Clarke's life. Silence. Ghosts. The sound of her own voice. Making impossible decisions on behalf of a chancellor with the tactical instincts of a twelve-year-old.

…...

Bellamy does not do anything drastic when he is released, which is a relief. She keeps changing his bandages, keeps pointlessly talking into the space in between them as she does so.

"These are healing well, Bellamy. You've taken good care of yourself, that's good." She needs to stop talking to him as if he's a small child, she knows. He must be about ready to punch her in the mouth. "I hope you had a good training session today. I had a good day with Jaha, we're setting up a school for the children. And then I went to see if my mum and Jackson needed any help, but she asked if I had _more important things to do_. She's still angry about Kane and I don't blame her. If – if she'd locked _you_ outside, I would never have forgiven her, would I?"

He doesn't answer, of course, even though she's basically just confessed her love for him. Never mind. He's still alive, and hasn't hurt himself. It's all good.

Good. _Good_? She's beginning to hate that word.

…...

Miller sits opposite her at breakfast one morning, alone. She panics.

"Where is he? Is he OK? Oh my God, tell me he didn't -"

"He's fine. He's on an early shift. They've put him back on active service." Of course - his wrists are basically healed, now. Soon she will have no excuse to show up at their quarters and speak to herself.

"Do you think he was looking forward to it?"

"Yeah. He said he was." Miller gives a shrug.

"He _said_ he was?"

"Yeah. You know, I asked him if he was looking forward to it, he said it would be good to be doing something useful again."

"He said all that?" She wants to cry. She hasn't had so much as a syllable in the last fortnight, and Miller gets whole entire _sentences_?

"Yeah. But I don't think he wanted to talk about it, really." Yes, that does sound more like it. "He changed the subject back to this movie we watched in the rec room the other night. Some stupid thing about Romans, but he liked it."

"That's good." She pastes on a bright smile, pretends that each word Bellamy speaks to Miller does not chafe at her heart.

It's not good. Nothing about this is good. She swallows her breakfast so quickly it scalds her throat, and then she goes home and sobs.

…...

She goes to their quarters that night, finds Miller mysteriously absent as he has so often been when the appointed hour comes around for her to check on Bellamy's wounds. Except, as she has established, there are no wounds to speak of, this evening, but she's still here, and Miller's still _not_ here.

OK, there are no physical wounds. There's enough psychological trauma to keep a good psychiatrist busy for life. But they haven't exactly had psychiatrists to spare, since the apocalypse, so it seems Clarke is destined to continue talking to this particular brick wall whose face resembles so strongly that of her former partner-in-crime.

"Hey." It's a waste of her time, of course, to greet him, given he is so determined to ignore her presence. "Your wrists are looking good." She curses herself, blushes violently. "I mean – I mean they've healed well. I guess you're wondering why I'm here, seeing as you don't need a doctor. I mean, _I'm_ wondering why I'm here." The old Bellamy would have smiled at that, she thinks, but this one is brushing at his eyes as if he's got a little dust in them. "But I guess – I just wanted to see you, and check you're OK. So yeah. Have a good evening."

She flees down the corridor towards her lonely bed, and decides that she will not go tomorrow. There is no point, if his wrists are healed so she can no longer do anything to help him, and he does not wish to so much as acknowledge her existence.

Tomorrow will be the first day of the rest of her life. She will lead her people, without Bellamy by her side. She will make polite conversation with strangers at the breakfast table, without Bellamy by her side.

She will learn to survive, without Bellamy by her side.

…...

Tomorrow arrives. She eats breakfast with strangers. Polite conversation is achieved.

She spends some time telling Jaha that he's wrong, and some time trying to convince her mother that she was right. Trying to convince her that locking that goddamn door was her only choice.

She eats supper with Murphy and Emori, and wonders how she found herself in a situation where these two outlaws count as her closest friends.

And then, of course, she goes to see Bellamy.

…...

He never does start speaking to her. And she never does stop going, never does learn how to survive without him by her side. OK, he's not strictly _by her side_ these days. He tends to be a good four yards away, the other side of an echoing bunk room.

She thinks that the polite Princess her mother raised on the Ark would be a bit ashamed of the way that she continues to inflict her company on him when he shows not the slightest sign of welcoming it. She'd think this was an invasion of his privacy, or at the very least rude, and she'd politely withdraw from this unhealthy addiction.

But the practical Princess her mother sent to the ground knows better than that. She knows that manners must give way to survival, and she's becoming ever more convinced that she would not function without this empty shell of the relationship that used to keep her centred, that used to keep her _sane_.

She's pretty sure she's not sane, any more. The whole talking-to-herself thing, that's got to be the first sign. But she's becoming ever more detached from those people who still are speaking to her, and is becoming ever more convinced that she doesn't deserve to survive. But she cannot duck out of this existence. That is simply not an option. Her people need her to survive, to keep them functioning, to bear things for them, so they do not have to.

She's going to survive this, whether she wants to or not.

She doesn't tell Bellamy any of this, of course. It's the kind of thing she might have been able to share with him, had she not ruined his life and killed the girl his world revolved around. But as it is, she keeps herself to empty recitations of news he must already know, one-sided discussion of films he has not yet watched or books he does not wish to read.

"I brought you another book." She tells him, depositing _Persuasion_ before him. "I'm not sure it'll be your thing. It's not about Greeks or Romans, but I thought it might do you good to read something that's not – that's not going to remind you of _her_. And – maybe this is selfish of me, but it's about forgiveness. I don't know, this is stupid. But I've just read it, and I cried a lot, but good tears so – so I thought maybe you'd like to give it a go."

He doesn't reply, of course. He's very preoccupied with picking some nonexistent dirt out from under his fingernails. But when she goes back the next evening, there's a bookmark peeping out, a little under half-way in.

…...

Miller and Jackson are in love. That's good – of course it's good. It is good that they are salvaging some happiness amongst this bunker that seems to be steeped in despair.

But it reminds her that she is _not_ in love. No, maybe that's not right. She's not in love with this empty ghost of Bellamy who sits there and ostensibly ignores her monologues, but she's very much in love with the Bellamy she used to know. And she believes he's still in there, somewhere, she believes it _fiercely_.

She has heard the stories from Miller, after all, of the way Bellamy is trying to piece himself back together in the wake of Octavia's death. Of evenings arguing good-naturedly over movies in the rec room, and of wry ill-timed jokes during training sessions of the guard. And she has heard from Jackson about the time he got an accidental injury at the hand of a young cadet, and laughed it off, and told the boy to learn from his mistake. Even Murphy likes to report back to her, that they had a drink together the other night, and Bellamy told him to shut up at least three times. So he's still in there, he must be.

She sees him around the place in the company of others, too. She braves going to the rec room, once, and although he seems a bit slower to laugh than she remembers before he lost his sister, he's still joining in the fun with every appearance of sociability.

So it's just her. She's the only one that doesn't get to see that the Bellamy she loves is still alive, if not entirely well.

She tells him some of this, one day. She cannot quite help it – sharing her every thought with this man is a hard habit to break. So when she shows up for her regular visit to his conveniently-uncrowded dorm, she tells him that she misses him.

"I just miss what we used to have. I know that's stupid, of course it couldn't be the same after – after what I did to you. But I can see that you're starting to try to get back to normal with everyone else, and that sucks because – because I _loved_ you, Bellamy." She's crying, hard, and she reckons he probably is too, but she doesn't want to look up and check. She knows that if he's _not_ crying, his being unaffected will only make her weep all the harder. "I think maybe I still do love you, but you're not you and – and I don't know how to process that. I don't know how to process _anything_ except food supplies and duty schedules and education systems and – and I don't know how to process anything that actually _matters_."

She chokes on a sob, swallows hard. Decides that she's embarrassed herself enough for one day, and heads for the door. And then, just when she is feeling, she reckons, the most hopeless she has ever felt, he stands up.

He's never done that before. He's never so much as _blinked_ in her presence if he can help it. But now, he does, as he picks up a book from his bedside and carries it over to meet her at the door.

He holds it out towards her. _Persuasion_ , bookmark no longer present. Presumably he has finished reading it. She very much wants to ask him if he enjoyed it, but it's difficult to have a meaningful conversation about a book with someone who won't speak to her.

She takes the book and flees, but at least she flees with the faintest spark of hope that, perhaps, things might be beginning to get better.

…...

Things don't get better, and the return of that book turns out to be just that. It was no grand gesture, no new beginning. It was just a book, that had ended, and was no longer required on the voyage. And so he tossed it easily overboard, just as he seems to have jettisoned their friendship.

For four long years, nothing changes. Every evening, without fail, Clarke presents herself at Bellamy's door and tells him every detail of her day, and quite a few details from days gone by. She tells him about her father's floating, and about Wells and his love of chess. She tells him about her current burden of leadership, too, about the rationing they will need to bring in to make it through the failure of the soybean crop, about her relief when their stockpiled supplies just about see them through. She even laughs a little when she tells him about a parent who has objected that the school curriculum does not include enough sport and exercise, as if the kids could be sent on a three mile run within this glorified hole in the ground.

For four long years, he ignores every word she says.

…...

Clarke is at the end of her tether. She's been thinking she might be for a while, of course, but now she is absolutely positive that this is her limit. Her mother is driving her crazy, seems ever more scatterbrained in Medical, is ever more confrontational, cries about Kane more rather than less with each passing day. Jaha appears to have rescinded control of all actual _decisions_ to Clarke, but still addresses 'his' people without fail once a week. She is tired and frustrated beyond belief, and to top it all, she's had this lingering cough for ages now. It's getting better, she's convinced of it, only it seems to be getting better rather slowly – slowly enough, in fact, that Jackson has adopted this annoying habit of saying to her that he thinks she should let him examine her.

She doesn't need to be examined. There's nothing wrong with her. She's just a bit overtired, and happens to have a bad cough.

Bellamy bears the brunt of her frustration. Of course he does. Some part of her is secretly hoping, she suspects, that if she takes it out on him enough he'll have to snap, sooner or later, and shout right back at her.

"I don't even know why I still do this every day." She rants at him as soon as she arrives. "You're obviously not going to reply. I guess – it started out as a way to keep myself sane, and remind myself who I am – or who I used to be. Or who _we_ used to be. But I'm pretty sure that it only upsets me more than it helps me. And it sure as hell isn't helping you." He looks at her, then, actually genuinely raises his eyes to hers, but it's been so long now that she can no longer read the expression in his gaze. "I guess if any psychiatrists had survived the apocalypse, they'd tell me that I'm still grieving you and the relationship we used to have. I know I'm still grieving Oc – Octavia, and Monty and Jasper and Harper and Raven and Niylah and so many other people I can't even count them any more. But I think it's because I'm still so damn in love with the person you used to be to me that I can't imagine _not_ doing this. I can't imagine a world where you never forgive me."

She stops, then, wracked by a fit of coughing, and takes a long moment to regain control of her breathing.

"I guess sooner or later I'm going to have to start imagining that world, huh? Because you're certainly never forgiving me."

He's still looking at her as she turns to leave.

…...

She's exhausted, and she has another one of those damn coughing fits on her way down the corridor, but she makes a moment to check in on Medical. Her mother hasn't been her usual self, recently, and she wants to see whether they need her help with anything.

They don't, as it turns out. Jackson really is phenomenal, and seems to have everything well in hand. She is on the point of leaving when she notices something amiss. That's the second time this week she's noticed that jar of painkillers empty.

She pauses, checks. Definitely the same drugs, definitely empty. She goes to the store room, hindered only by another minor coughing fit en route. And then she checks the supply there, finds out that it is worryingly low, but finds that there is no record of any of these pills being signed out in the inventory.

That's weird. She needs to look into this. First thing tomorrow, she'll ask her mother -

Suddenly, it all makes sense. The trembling, the crying, the erratic job performance. The disconnection from the rest of the world, even from her own daughter. Her mother is addicted to those damn painkillers. How did she not put the pieces together sooner? In her defence, Clarke muses, she's had other things on her mind. And she hasn't had a lot of energy spare for problem solving, recently. Still, she fully intends to solve this particular problem now.

She marches towards Abby's quarters, a dorm room shared with a selection of unobjectionable women who used to live on Alpha station. She doesn't suppose any of them would have noticed having a drug addict in their midst, she thinks, with rather less sympathy than she supposes she ought to spare for her own mother.

"How long have you been addicted to those pills?" She doesn't have time to beat about the bush. She needs to get to sleep soon, if she has any hope of being functional tomorrow.

Abby looks in horror at her dorm mates, then at her daughter. "I don't know what you mean."

"Spare me the lies, Mum. You've been stealing pills from Medical because you're addicted to them. The shakes and the mood swings and the being _out of it_?"

Abby holds out for another second or three, then crumples, face caving in, tears coursing down her cheeks. "I'm sorry, honey. I'm so, so sorry. But if you knew, Clarke, the pain -"

"You just have to deal with it." She tells her, without remorse, recalling what Abby said about Bellamy all those years ago. "We've all got reasons to be upset, Mum, we haven't got the resources to give any special care to you just because you're upset about Kane."

For one, sickening moment, she feels a flash of satisfaction at the hurt expression on her mother's face. She's tired, OK? She's so damn tired of holding this shitshow together single-handed, and she thinks her mother should damn well buck up and pull her weight, not drown her sorrows in drugs.

"Why would you -?"

Abby stops talking, eyebrows furrowed, as Clarke starts coughing. She's not concerned, really, this latest fit will pass soon and then her mother will get back to playing the victim in a situation where there are, in fact, _only_ victims.

But then it doesn't pass. It doesn't pass, and her lungs won't take in air, and now the floor is rushing up to meet her.

…...

The fever dreams are a mixed bag. There's Octavia's burning corpse, mocking her for those pathetic daily visits to her brother. Raven's burning corpse, Monty's burning corpse. Variations on a theme of burning corpses.

The corpses at Mount Weather, blistered, the corpse of Fox, bleeding. The corpses of those grounders Bellamy shot the last time she let him down, and the corpses of the strangers she condemned to the death wave.

Corpses upon corpses upon corpses.

There are happier dreams, too, conversations with her dad about nothing in particular, smiles from her mother before the pills. There are games of chess with Wells, games of football watched with a Thelonius Jaha who still had some concept of strategy.

More than anything else, though, there is Bellamy. Whispering to her that she has to wake up, muttering that however much rage he holds towards her he still needs her alive. Murmuring that he really does want to forgive her, one day, that he hopes to manage it sooner or later, but that he will never be able to do that if she's dead.

It's a shame that's not real, she thinks in a disorientated kind of a way, as she feels a warm hand brush hair away from her sweat-soaked forehead and wonders why she cannot open her eyes. But it is, at least, a very sweet dream.

…...

She wakes up on a firm bed, to the bleeping of a heart rate monitor and the smell of sterile med bay.

No, that's not all. There's something else there, a whiff of something that smells almost like one of Bellamy's hugs. Funny how she can still remember what those smell like, even after all these years. Must be a hallucination, left over from those vivid fever dreams.

She sighs a little, and looks around the room. Jackson is over there, with his back to her, preparing goodness only knows what, and she doesn't want to disturb him. She therefore fixes her eyes on the ceiling, and tries to remember the sound of Bellamy's voice. It's been so long since she's heard it, but somehow it sounded so _real_ while she was dreaming, and she intends to cling to that memory for as long as she can, however pathetic that might make her.

Jackson turns, holding a tray, then notices that her eyes are open. He deposits his burden with haste and makes his way to her bedside.

"Clarke! Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Good." She croaks. It is a lie. That word is always a lie.

Jackson laughs, not unkindly. "You've looked and sounded better, but you're alive. That's what counts. I can't believe it, Clarke. You're basically a doctor and you didn't even realise you had _pneumonia_?"

She doesn't answer that. She asks a different question, instead. "How's my mum?"

"She's getting there." Jackson answers with a cautious smile. "She started coming off the pills as soon as you got sick, said she'd never forgive herself if you died after arguing with her about it. And she really is doing it, too, I've been working closely with her and controlling how much she takes."

"That's good." It is almost the truth, this time.

"It's great. She's doing well. She'll be so glad you're awake. And I must get a message to Bellamy, too."

She frowns, sure she must have misheard. "Bellamy?"

"Yeah. He just left, said to tell him if there was any news."

She's still frowning, still convinced she must have missed something. "Bellamy?"

"Yes, Clarke. You know, your best friend?"

She gets it, then, understands that it was supposed to be a joke. She never noticed before that Jackson was prone to making uncomfortably-close-to-home jokes, but she cannot blame him for branching out. There's not a whole lot else to do in this damn bunker. She therefore laughs, somewhat hysterically, until tears are streaming down her face.

"Clarke?" Jackson is not laughing. "Clarke? Are you OK?"

"Well I'm pleased the fact that Bellamy hates me is a joke, these days." She tells him, now crying rather more than she's laughing.

"What? It's not a joke, Clarke. Sure, you've hit a rough patch, but that doesn't change the fact that you guys are – you're a team."

"A rough patch? A _rough patch_? The man hasn't spoken to me in _four years._ I killed his _sister_. That's a hell of a rough patch."

"He's spoken to you a lot in the last week." Jackson informs her smartly, looking almost affronted. "He's been here every waking minute that you've been sick. He said he needed _personal leave_ from the guard, and then he sat in that chair right there and told you to get better."

She stares at the chair in question, hard. It does smell of Bellamy hugs. And she's never known Jackson to lie to her before – never known him to lie to _anyone_ before – but it simply cannot be true.

"Really?"

"Really."

She shakes her head, whether in denial or confusion she's no longer sure. "Then why isn't he here now?"

"He left when I said it looked like you were going to wake up. He said it was complicated and that he didn't want you to see him here."

"But you felt fine with _telling me_ he'd been here. Even though he didn't want me to know."

"I did." Jackson confirms, and although it's not _lying_ Clarke decides that he is, apparently, capable of some small acts of deception after all. "I thought it was important that you knew."

She nods, slowly. It does seem important – if it's true, of course. She still hasn't absolutely decided that it is true.

"Good." Jackson hands her a glass of water, then strides towards the door. "I'm going to get your mum. And I'll have someone send that message to Bellamy."

…...

Bellamy does not come to see her in med bay after she wakes up, not once. Of course he doesn't. There is apparently a hell of a difference between not wanting her to be dead and wanting to see her alive.

Her mum spends a lot of time with her, though, and once she's stopped apologising for the pills and the shock and triggering the passing out, she's decent company. It's good to feel loved again. She's missed that.

She goes to Bellamy's dorm the moment she's discharged from Medical. Of course she does. There's a hell of a difference between him not wanting to come to her, and her not being willing to go to him. And yeah, sure, she was frustrated the last time she went for her daily instalment of this pathetic ritual, but that was before he spent a week keeping vigil at her bedside.

"Thank you." She tells him, the moment he looks up and takes in her appearance. "Your voice – I think it was what got me through that. I was struggling, really I was. My mum said this stupid thing about how she was addicted because of the pain and I just thought, _if only she knew_. I'd been starting to wonder if maybe Jasper had the right idea, but I knew I couldn't – you know – because too damn many people are relying on me. So I just have to keep going, don't I?"

She sighs, and manages to convince herself to try for a cheerier tone. "So thank you. And I promise I'm going to do everything I can to make it possible for you to forgive me, one day."

She reckons that's enough for today. She doesn't have a lot of news to share, after all – she knows full well that Jackson has kept him updated on every detail of her condition. She is, therefore, on the point of turning to leave when Miller starts to speak.

Damn it. She hadn't realised he was even here, tucked in the shadows in the far corner. That'll serve her right for showing up at an unexpected time of day.

"Hey, Clarke. We're watching a movie in the rec room tonight. Jackson should be there, Murphy and Emori too. Bellamy's chosen some historical drama about Romans. You could join us, if you like."

She's shocked. There is no other word for it. Rather confused as to this invitation, wondering whether Miller has lost his mind to be welcoming someone his roommate hates so much to a cheerful social occasion, she fixes her gaze on Bellamy, silently asking how he would like her to respond.

His jaw clenched, he gives the slightest nod.

"Thanks, Miller. That sounds great. I'd love to come."

…...

It's not a film she would choose to watch. And she wouldn't choose to spend an evening crammed on a sofa next to Murphy who is so cheerfully ignoring the TV in favour of making out with Emori. It's not that pleasant, really, to sit here in such close proximity to such a happy relationship.

But it is good to be here all the same. There are smiles, and there is laughter, and there is even, occasionally, the sound of Bellamy's voice. He's quiet through the film, but when it ends and Jackson asks what he made of it, he speaks up, although haltingly.

"I thought it was entertaining. Not very historically accurate, though."

She could kiss him. Honestly, she could. But she can't, of course.

"It was fun." She agrees, with a smile that is not entirely fake. "Thanks for the invite."

She keeps going to talk to him in the evenings. She thinks she would be incapable of breaking that habit, would find it even harder than her mother is finding it to wean herself off those pills. She talks with a little more honesty about her mental state and about her mother's addiction, thanks him again and again and again for staying at her side during her illness.

One week after that movie night, Miller is in the dorm again. And that surprises her, really, because she has been very careful to stick to her schedule ever since he overheard her that time she showed up unexpectedly.

"We're watching another film tonight." He informs her, the moment she is through the door. "The sequel to that last one. You up for it?"

"Yeah." She finds a smile actually spontaneously breaking out over her face. "Of course."

Then he stands up and leaves, and she gets on with talking to Bellamy as usual.

…...

Miller is there again a week later, and this time there is an invitation to watch some film about a large boat that was very popular on Earth before the bombs. She agrees, of course. She's not interested in boats, but she is interested in forgiveness.

A week later, Miller asks her how she feels about anime. She doesn't know what anime is (or _are_? She's not clear on the matter) but she tells him it sounds great.

Another seven days, another invitation. Back to the Romans again, and some tenuous romance plot that has little to do with any actual historical event.

"What's the verdict?" Someone asks every week, of course. There is no point having a film club and not sharing their opinions. But this is the first week that she has dared to ask the question.

"I liked it." Bellamy says. Three little words, the only three words he's said to her – awake – in years. The best three words she's heard in her entire lifetime.

Jackson starts talking, then, something about the unrealistic portrayal of romantic relationships, but Clarke isn't listening. She's too busy beaming, and revelling in the fact that something _good_ has happened to her at long last.

…...

Miller isn't there a week later, and Clarke fights down tears of disappointment. Did she do something wrong? Something besides killing Octavia, that is. Did she overstep her mark in asking the group at large their opinions last week?

She doesn't ask Bellamy about that. She can't. She boxes up her feeling of rejection and gets on with telling him about her day. "I thought that breakfast was good today. I must remember to tell Kara that, she's a lot easier to work with if you offer her a bit of positive reinforcement. And then Jaha actually did look over the reports on the oxygen scrubbers I asked him to deal with, so that was great. The good news is we should still be able to breathe for the next few years, if we have to. But we're getting out in less than a year now, of course. Anyway, that was my day. It was – it was quite good, actually. I can't remember the last time I had a good day."

She pauses, wondering if the words she is about to share are wise.

"I think it was that time we drove the hydrazine to the island. I know we lost some of it so – so that led to me killing most of the human race. But we didn't die, and you had my back and... it was good."

He doesn't respond, of course, or not in words. She thinks that she can maybe see a slight softening of his clenched jaw, but she might be clutching at straws.

"I think that's me done. I hope you had a good day. Murphy tells me you smashed your fitness test – can't say I'm surprised – so, yeah, well done."

Bellamy is sitting on the edge of his bed, now, lacing his boots, and that has her a bit puzzled. Normally he just does nothing during her daily check-in – he doesn't tend to be doing another actual task.

"Right. Yes, so – have a good evening." She turns and tackles the first of the two paces that lie between her and the door.

"We're watching _Persuasion_." He informs her, getting to his feet. "Come on."

With that, he strides through the door and sets out to the rec room. It's a good thing he's in the lead, she thinks. She's so overcome with stunned joy that she cannot entirely remember the way.

…...

He acknowledges her existence with increasing frequency, after that. She still wouldn't go as far as to say they're speaking to each other, because that conventionally implies an actual back-and-forth, some useful exchange of information, but they are, in the most literal of senses, _speaking to each other_.

Sometimes she asks the audience at large what they make of the film, and he replies. Sometimes he asks, and she makes a point of smiling as she answers. And for the most part he doesn't speak when she goes to visit him in the evenings, but occasionally he does, and that's something.

He makes eye contact with her when they pass in the corridors, too, and she tries not to blush like a little girl the first time he actually _smiles_ at her. Sure, it's not exactly a fully-fledged grin, but when she walks into him and Miller in the breakfast queue and says she can't wait to see what terrible horror movie Murphy subjects them to next, Bellamy's lips quirk up at the corners ever so slightly and it's like the sun breaking free from behind the clouds.

Only storm clouds don't usually last _four years_ , Clarke acknowledges, and tries not to cry all over again.

…...

She doesn't mean to miss her evening appointment with Bellamy. She would never mean to do that – she figures that if she can ruin his life, the least she can do is be reliable in her timekeeping thereafter. But today her mother has absented herself from med bay, explaining tearfully that she's having a bad day and doesn't trust herself to be around the drugs, and Jackson has his hands full with a complicated labour, and so Clarke finds herself diagnosing and setting a broken wrist one of the guards has managed to acquire tripping up the stairs, of all things.

By the time she is done, it is over an hour past the time she would normally go to see Bellamy. And she still hasn't had any supper, and she still has to tidy up med bay after herself, and she still ought to look over Jaha's speech for tomorrow, and really it's all getting a bit much.

But she wants to go see Bellamy. She hasn't seen him today, and she can feel the need to be in his presence gnawing away at the edges of her composure.

With a sigh, she forces herself to start packing away the things she pulled out of cupboards to treat her patient. It would be rude, she decides, to burst in on Bellamy's privacy when he's not expecting her, when she wouldn't be welcome. To be fair, she's not sure she's _welcome_ at any moment. But she is, at least, starting to feel _accepted_.

She hears the door open behind her but doesn't turn away from restocking the cupboards. It's probably just Jackson, come to grab something he needs, she reckons.

It's not Jackson. That becomes pretty evident the moment she hears Bellamy's voice. "I thought I might find you here."

She spins around, dizzyingly fast, and sure enough, there is Bellamy, loitering on the threshold, looking expectantly at her.

"Sorry." She begins. She often begins like that, it seems to her. "I didn't mean to miss our – I don't know, our appointment? But then Jackson was busy and my mum had to take some time out and by the time I was done I thought probably it was too late and you weren't expecting me. And I didn't want to violate your privacy or something. I know that probably sounds stupid, when I walk into your dorm and talk at you every single day without you actually wanting me there, but – yeah."

He doesn't answer, of course. But he does seem to be smiling, at least a little.

She tries for a happier tone as she continues. "It's good that you stopped by. I was – I was missing you. God, that sounds stupid. But it's great to see you. Let me tell you the story of that cadet I just patched up – Miles, d'you know him?" The barest nod. "Well it probably doesn't surprise you that he managed to fall up some stairs. He seems like a sweet guy, but he kept knocking things over even when he was in here. So clumsy." Bellamy is definitely smiling, now, apparently familiar with this particular colleague's shortcomings. "He reminds me of some of the kids, back at the dropship. You know that guy who used to cut his fingers open by mistake every time he tried to skin anything? Another John, wasn't he?"

Another nod, another smile. She's not being ignored, any more, and it makes her heart sing.

"I think that's all the news I have today. And I still have to finish cleaning up in here, and then I need to check Jaha's speech for tomorrow isn't completely stupid." She fixes an apologetic expression on her face, because apologetic is what she does best around Bellamy, these days.

He nods again. He's getting good at that. But then, after he turns to leave, just as he is half way back through the door, three very carefully selected words.

"See you tomorrow."

…...

He continues to offer her small gestures of acknowledgement as a human being, after that – the occasional smile, a much-treasured _hey_ of greeting. And she continues to tell him every minute detail of her life, because she doesn't know how else she's supposed to keep functioning, down here, behind that damn door.

Sometimes, though, she branches out. Once in a while, the need to put things right overwhelms her, and she wastes her time on yet another apology that she knows is destined to go unaccepted.

"I'm not surprised you haven't forgiven me." She starts, one evening. " _I_ still haven't forgiven me, if I'm being honest. I know it was what I had to do to save the human race. I _know_ it. But that doesn't make it any easier to let it go. And I had to do it to save you, too. I know you don't see it that way because you're hurt, and you've always taken things to heart rather than thinking them through. But – it's like how you shot Jaha to follow your sister down to Earth. I – I sacrificed her and Kane, because you were safe behind this door."

She pauses then, realises her mistake.

"Wow, that came out wrong. Your sister didn't exactly love Jaha, did she? It's not like you killed the most important person in her world in order to protect her. Good job, Clarke. Real good job." She berates herself with no small dose of frustration, curls her fingers into an angry fist. "God, I'm so sorry. I should just give up on this, shouldn't I? I don't think I can, though. I'm - I'm going to go and leave you to your evening."

She is half way out the door when she hears his voice.

"You didn't kill her. You let her die. There's a difference."

She cries herself to sleep, that night, no longer sure whether the tears she's shedding are tears of relief or of despair.

…...

Tomorrow will mark five years since the death wave, and their measurements of surface radiation levels all agree.

It is time to go back to the ground.

Clarke tells Bellamy this, because she tells him everything. She tells him everything even though she knows full well, on this occasion, that this is something every resident of the bunker is talking about, that this date has been marked on their calendars for years. But she also tells him because she has a plan in mind, and one that is of particular relevance to him.

"So I'm going to go check it out before we take everyone up there. I was thinking you should come with me, so that you can say goodbye to her without an audience. And I've asked Miller to come, as well, as moral support. I hope that sounds OK." She doesn't bother phrasing it as a question, because she wouldn't like to presume she'll get an answer.

He surprises her, though, with a sad smile and single syllable. "Yeah."

"Great. Well, then. See you tomorrow."

"See you then."

That, she reckons, might even qualify as a conversation.

…...

Jaha suggested they should wear the rubber radiation suits for this expedition, but Clarke laughed in his face and told him she had no intention of doing any such thing. She trusts the engineering team, trusts the numbers they are reading, and to be honest, if she dies of radiation poisoning she reckons it'll serve her right.

For a moment, she remembers that Bellamy will be with her and is utterly horrified. He cannot be allowed to die of radiation poisoning, not after everything she's done to protect him. But then she reminds herself to think it through – because thinking things through used to be what she did best, once upon a time – and reminds herself, too, that the engineers are absolutely convinced it's safe out there.

The three of them arrive at the airlock, and Clarke climbs the stairs. And then she opens the door. It is that easy, after all these years. She has only to turn the handle and step out into the fresh air.

It is all too obvious which body is Octavia's. The skeleton lies curled up, right next to the door, the charred remains of her sword still resting at her side, as if it has just tumbled from her fleshless hand.

Bellamy comes to the same conclusion, of course, the moment he reaches the top of the ladder. He collapses in on himself, a bundle of sobs by the side of his sister's remains for long, loud minutes. And it hurts to listen to it, hurts to see it, but Clarke does nothing more than stand and watch.

She says nothing. She cannot speak, somehow, in this moment, even after so many years spent talking to this man too much.

At length, his sobs subside into a quieter kind of weeping, and he reaches out a finger, just one, to stroke the thin air where his sister's cheek used to be. And then he pulls himself to his feet, and engulfs Clarke in a vehement hug.

It takes her by surprise. Of course it does. Bellamy has barely interacted with her beyond a monosyllable since the moment he found out she'd locked this cursed door, and now he's holding onto her like he'll never let go. He's still crying, silent tears coursing down his cheeks and falling onto her shirt, and he's got one hand tight around her waist and another tangled in her hair and she simply cannot make sense of it. Miller was supposed to be here for moral support, she remembers telling Bellamy that herself. But somehow she is the one he has chosen to keep him upright in this moment of weakness.

Minutes pass, long minutes. Minutes enough that Clarke starts to believe that, maybe, they might one day add up to enough time to outweigh those five grim years they spent beneath the ground.

At last, Bellamy pulls away from the hug, squeezing her shoulder one last time as he goes. And then, without a word, without so much as meeting her eye, he walks away from the door and on towards the ruins of Polis.

Clarke stands, stunned, and watches his retreating back. She fights down a rising tide of panic at the thought of whether he intends to just keep walking, put one foot in front of the other for ever and ever and ever. She wouldn't put it past him, after what she's put him through.

"You should go after him." Miller voices the suggestion in a tone that implies it is actually an instruction.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Well, then. She has a lot of respect for Miller's opinions. She makes haste to follow the route Bellamy took so recently, until she finds him sitting on a chunk of rubble and looking out over the ruined city. She notes with an unwitting smile that he appears to have chosen a chunk of rubble big enough for two, and that he's carefully located himself at one end, leaving a space that might as well have her name on it.

She takes him up on the hint, settles herself by his side. And then she simply sits and looks out at the desolation with him. She doesn't speak. It doesn't feel right, somehow, now that they are on this side of the door. And so it is that the silence stretches out between them.

"Clarke?" Bellamy's voice cracks on her name, startling her out of her thoughts.

She hums in acknowledgement, convinced that she will fall apart if she tries for actual words.

"I'm sorry I couldn't answer you all those years. I – I always meant to try it, one day, but the longer it went on the more I thought that maybe I'd forgotten how to speak to you. I've certainly forgotten how to speak to you like – like I used to."

He pauses, but Clarke has nothing to add.

"I thought that if I just got back to this side of the door it would be OK. I always thought that somehow she'd be here, still alive, that she'd have magically survived. And then I'd be able to be angry with you for a while, and then forgive you, just like I did when you left after Mount Weather but then _you came back_. Every time you'd ever hurt me before, you'd undone it again, and then I'd forgiven you and things went back to normal. But this isn't ever going to go back to normal, is it? She's … she's dead."

He falls silent again, takes a couple of deep breaths that sound more than a little damp.

"For years I couldn't believe that one of the two people I loved had killed the other. And then when you were sick I realised something. I couldn't believe it because _it wasn't true_. You didn't kill her. You let her die. And I realised that it wasn't only you, it was Jaha too, and that you were trying to do the right thing. But – I haven't worked out how to forgive you yet."

She nods, a little frantically. "I get that." She murmurs. "I'll get it if you _never_ work it out."

"I will, one day. You're too important to me to give up on you now."

They sit in silence for a bit longer after that, and Clarke wonders whether Miller is still waiting for them or has the sense to give up and go home. Yeah, she reckons it's probably the latter. They've been here several hours, now, and the shadows are lengthening. She knows she ought to suggest they go back inside, but she's not quite sure her lips are capable of forming the words.

"I don't want to go back inside." Bellamy can still read her mind, it seems. "I'm not ready to go back there. I think I'll spend the night out here."

"I'll get you a tent." She offers.

"Thanks. If – if you get one big enough for two people, that would be good, too. If that's what you want, of course. I just thought you might not want to go back to your dorm full of ghosts, either."

She nods, once, and goes to fetch a tent.

…...

They have a good evening together – or at least, it is the best evening Clarke has had in years. Bellamy pitches the tent, while she sets out the food she has brought up from the mess hall. And then they eat together in companionable silence, and then she hands him a book she picked up from his dorm.

"Thanks." He offers a tentative smile and takes the book, then settles down in his sleeping bag to read.

Clarke, meanwhile, pulls out a report on the state of the hydrofarm and makes a start at wading through the dense text. It's not exactly interesting, though, and her heart isn't really in it, and however hard she tries to keep her head in the game it's not quite willing to play along, tonight. She therefore reaches for the pencil and sketchpad she impulsively took from the supply room on her way here. She hasn't drawn in five years. She couldn't face it, somehow, while suffocating in guilt beneath the ground, but she thinks this might be a good day to give it another try.

Minutes pass, and become hours, and Clarke finds herself growing reacquainted with the concept of relaxation after far too long without it. At length, she notices that Bellamy has set down his book and raised his brows at her.

She turns to meet his eye, confused to say the least.

"It's time." He tells her, tone suggesting that she ought to know what he's talking about.

"Time?"

"This is the time when you tell me all about your day."

She swallows down the prickly feeling that teases her throat, tries for a coherent sentence. "You already know all about my day. You've been with me since this morning."

"I still want to hear it. I – I always want to hear it."

She takes a shaky breath. She's been talking to Bellamy every day for more months than she cares to count, but now that it seems he might actually respond she's not quite sure she can do this.

He shuffles a little closer, just enough that she can feel his warmth across the space in between them, and it gives her the confidence to shape the words.

"I had a good day." She begins, hesitantly. "We found out the ground is safe again, so that's good news. And – I have this friend. The best friend I've ever had, but we've been having some problems recently. Not just recently. We've been having problems for a while, ever since I did something he can't forgive me for. But then today he – he hugged me. And we're talking again and it's _brilliant_."

He chuckles, a warm, affectionate sound, and takes up his book again.

"I had a good day, too."

That night they fall asleep side-by-side in the most comfortable silence Clarke has ever known.

…...

There is no magic happy ending beyond the door. Clarke always knew it would be like that, for all that Bellamy apparently dreamed that everything that was wrong between them would be easily resolved on the other side. But little by little, day by day, happiness creeps up on them.

They camp on the ground for a week, during which the other members of the bunker gradually emerge for short visits and day trips in the sun. And at the end of that week, they pack away their tent and spend one night lying on adjacent beds in that haunted dorm Clarke used to hate so much. She doesn't hate it, tonight, as they chat about nothing in particular until the early hours.

The following morning, they set out in the rover, just the two of them. Clarke suggested it might be sensible to take a couple of friends along with them – Murphy and Emori seemed the logical choice. But Bellamy was having none of it, insisted that it felt right in his gut that just the two of them should go search for habitable land together. So it is that they drive into the rising sun with that much-hated bunker at their backs and talk about what the future might hold.

He almost says it that night, as they camp beneath the stars and look out over the ruins of Arkadia.

"Clarke?"

"Mmm."

"I – I for-"

"No, Bellamy." She places a brave finger on his lips. "Not until you're ready."

"How do you know I'm not ready to say it now?"

"Because I know you."

He doesn't say anything to that. He doesn't always reply to her, even now, but he responds often enough that Clarke has gone and fallen in love with him all over again. She always knew she would, just as soon as they worked it out. Just as soon as things were good between them once again. He's back in her life again, now, that exasperating man who mixes deep kindness and fierce bravery and easy companionship into such a dangerous cocktail.

When she wakes up the following morning, her head is on his chest, and his arms are wrapped tight around her waist.

…...

They keep exploring, venturing further, driving more boldly. At last they crest a hill and are greeted with a miraculous valley of vibrant green.

"It's beautiful." She sighs, looking out at the scene before them.

"So are you." He tells her, tone nonchalant. "I should have mentioned that about six years ago, huh?"

She stares at him, stunned, for several seconds, and does not stop staring even when he starts the rover and drives into the trees.

…...

Clarke is all for detail, but she's beginning to think that Bellamy is stretching out their mission to survey the valley for far longer than is strictly necessary. Not only have they mapped the locations of water sources and buildings, but she's pretty sure they've identified every damn plant within a ten mile radius of the remains of the village, and still he is insisting that they need to stay for _just one more day_.

"Bellamy. Come on, we've been here a month. The people in the bunker are getting restless, we need to go and tell them about their new home."

"I think we should just stay here until we've finished surveying the wildlife, though."

"Bellamy. We're running out of rations."

"Then let me go hunting."

"We're not here to _hunt_. We're here to find a safe place for our people to live. We've done that, so we're going home tomorrow. And that's final."

It's the first disagreement they've dared to have since she let Octavia die. He frowns at her, hard, and then stomps away into the trees, and she falls heavily onto a log and wonders if she has ruined their rekindled friendship.

She hasn't. He's back, ten minutes later, clutching a wilted daisy with three heads.

"Look, Clarke. Look what I found." He presents it to her, and she wraps him in a firm hug.

"What was that for?" He asks, bemused, when he pulls away.

"You're still speaking to me."

"Yeah." He's looking at her like she's lost her mind, and the irony of the situation is not lost on her. All those years she was clinging to the shreds of her sanity, he never once looked at her like this.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. We've survived worse, haven't we?"

…...

They pack up the rover the following morning, and leave for the journey back to Polis. They expect it to take only one day, now that they know where they are going and can take a direct route.

Bellamy is quiet as he drives out of the green and into the sand.

"Want to tell me what's wrong?" Clarke asks gently.

"I was happy there, for the first time since she died. I don't want to go back to the place where I was miserable, and where we were broken."

"I get that. But you'll be back here soon, when we all move here. And – and we're not broken, any more."

"You're right about that." He confirms, reaching across to squeeze her thigh. "Do you think it'll be the same, when we move here for good? Will you still laugh at my crap attempts to make breakfast?"

"Will you still bring me irradiated daisies?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like to." He peeps across at her, a smile spreading across his cheeks.

"In that case, I'll keep laughing at you."

The drive proceeds in silence for a while, after that. They are both rather more content with quietness than they used to be, and that is perhaps something that will never go back to the way it was before. One or other of them occasionally makes an observation on the landscape, but they certainly feel no need to talk for the sake of hearing their own voices.

…...

Evening is just starting to colour the horizon when the tower of Polis comes into view. Clarke sees Bellamy's grip grow tense on the steering wheel and reaches across to rest a hand on his forearm.

"It'll be OK, Bellamy. I'm not planning to kill anyone you love, this time."

"I'm not planning to shut you out for five years, either."

The tower grows larger as they approach, as does the ball of dread in the pit of her stomach. She knows there is no good reason to feel this way, but she always has been a bit prone to getting emotional when it comes to Bellamy. She dares to steal another glance at him, takes in the line of his jaw and the curve of his cheek.

"It's time." He prompts her, when they can be no more than moments away from their destination.

"Oh, sorry." She catches herself napping, glances at the clock. Sure enough, he speaks the truth. "Today was a good day, I guess. We had a safe journey at least. But I'm worried about getting back to the bunker, because I associate it with things being wrong between me and you. And I know it has a lot of sad memories for you, as well. But the sooner we get back and move everyone to the valley, the sooner we can settle there and start over."

"Starting over sounds good."

"Yeah." She agrees, as he pulls up outside the bunker.

He doesn't open the door, yet, though, and for some reason she feels like she is supposed to sit tight and wait for his lead. Maybe he just needs a moment to collect his thoughts, or summon his courage, or -

"I forgive you." He tells her, and his voice is warm. She always expected that, if she lived to hear those words on his lips, they would sound heavy, and he would be struggling. But he says it as if it is the easiest thing in the world.

"You really mean it?"

"Yeah. And I figured this place deserved a happy memory to balance the sad ones."

"That was a good idea." She murmurs, and somehow while she has been distracted by this monumental moment of reconciliation he has acquired her hand and laced his fingers with hers.

"I have another idea. I'm hoping you'll think it's a good one, too. I was thinking that – that when we get to that valley with the others, and we start again, I'd like to start again with _you_. I want our new life to have us in the same house. And we've been sharing a tent this last six weeks so I figure it's not such a big deal to share a bed. I hope so, anyway. And I was thinking that – that if there's any part of you that still feels about me the way you once told me you felt, maybe we could try giving that a go."

That's a lot of words, coming from someone who wouldn't speak to her for four years, and she can't help but feel that they are not the clearest words he's ever said. She tells him as much, and her heart sings when he gives a hollow laugh instead of bursting into tears.

"Let me try again. I'm still half in love with you, Clarke. Can we have a go at finding the other half?"

She's talked at him enough in recent times, she reckons. This is more of a moment for action. She reaches across the space in between them and presses her lips to his.

It's not exactly an Earth-shattering first kiss, but that's fine with her. The Earth has had a tough enough time, of late, and she wouldn't want to be adding to its troubles. No, this kiss is warm, yet tentative, and a little too polite, but they've got a lifetime ahead of them to work on that. And it's Bellamy, at least, so she's got that wavy hair to sink her fingers into and those broad shoulders to grasp at.

So, yeah, as first kisses go, it's certainly not bad. In fact, she decides, it's pretty damn _good_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
